Page 95 of Godslayer
No.
Daughters?
No.
I laugh—a soft sound that spins through the stars and bounces off the edge of the universe before returning to me.
Not daughters.
Little Sisters.
My joy comes from understanding. It’s a relief, really. Because it would be easy to assume that nothing we did inside the Tau City Factory had meaning. It would be very easy to dismiss it all. To call it a sad lie.
Which is a sad ending to a tragic story.
And that’s not the kind of story I want to live in. So to me, this proves that my life in Tau City was something more than that.
Yes, it was a lie. The tower, the god, the Extraction—but there was truth there. Truth in the form of the Maidens.
Allthe maidens. Not just the chosen ones. Because every single woman had spark inside her.
“That’s… you,” I say, lifting my hand out of the shimmering water to point to the group of women. “You’re all spark.”
It’s true. That is the whole reason they have factories. To growgirls.
And if this were the end of the story, thatwouldbe tragic.
But it’s not. This story is just getting started. So the lie means something too. Because the women of the factory dimension, for whatever reason, are made up of spark. And we are all sisters. We all come from the source.
The spark sea hugs me. At least that’s what it feels like. An embracing blanket of warmth swirls around my body, telling me that I’m on the right track. And as I think this, a woman standing on the bow of the nearest ship, raises her hands—beckoning me.
My body lifts up from the water, spark dripping off me, and I float up in the air towards her. When I get there, I hover briefly over the top of the carved figurehead—a Spark Maiden, body carved into the shape of the bow, arms by her side, head tilted up towards the sky, lips parted slightly and eyes wide—as if awestruck.
My feet touch down softly on her back and my beckoner is now a mere few steps away. She reaches for me—her little cherry light brightening as she approaches. Doesn’t say anything, isn’t capable of speech because she doesn’t have a face. But inside her cherry of light, there is something tosee. Tohear. Totouch.
I lean forward, reaching for it, but not with my hands, with my own little cherry of light. There is a connection—a kind ofjolting, like pieces locking into place. And when this happens, Idosee. And hear. And touch. And I do it for her. I see her. Her life inside the Delta City Factory. Cold fear. Endless harvest. A life of pitiful slavery, and abject misery, and constant abuse.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. And I find that I have a voice. I’m the only one here with a voice. “I didn’t know. I’m very sorry to learn of your suffering.”
Desperate to give this Maiden’s life purpose, and finding myself short on gifts, I do the only thing I can to ensure remembrance.
I name her.
“You are... Majesta.” And then, for some reason, one of the symbols on my body begins to glow white instead of blue. I exhale, filled with sudden understanding. Because these symbols on my body aren’t words, or letters that tell my story. They are names that telltheirs.
Why I have them—why I’m the one to carry their memory on my body—I have no idea.
But tears of relief flow down Majesta’s face when she realizes she was never forgotten.
Just misplaced.
“You’re free now,” I tell her. And as soon as these words come out, I understand what’s really happening here. Her soul—all of their souls—have been trapped. Harvested until there’s nothing left of them but their essence—a light the size of a cherry.
From the Source we come, and to the Source we return.
Except, it’s not true.
Not if you’re harvested.
